Until i met you, p.1
Until I Met You, page 1
Until I Met You
A Boom Factory Publishing HEA Novel
Amanda Faye
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Amanda Faye
Happily Ever Alpha World
About Boom Factory Publishing
Until I Met You
Copyright © 2021 by Amanda Faye
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published by Boom Factory Publishing, LLC.
Amanda Faye CONTRIBUTOR to the Original Works was granted permission by Aurora Rose Reynolds, ORIGINAL AUTHOR, to use the copyrighted characters and/ or worlds created by Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Work; all copyright protection to the characters and/ or worlds of Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Works are and shall continue to be retained by Aurora Rose Reynolds. You can find all of Aurora Rose Reynolds Original Works on most major retailers. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.
Formatting by: TCC Designs
Cover by: TCC Designs & RBA Designs
Dedication
To Thomas.
You are every hero I write.
Chapter One
Sebastian
She's beautiful.
It's the first thought that pops into my head when I pull the curtain to the side to introduce myself to the patient waiting for me. I don't usually notice a woman's looks. Not in the hospital anyway. I can admit that I've been doing this long enough now; I don't notice much outside of the issue that brought a patient into the emergency room.
But her beauty is breathtaking. Heart-stopping. I freeze with my hand still on the room divider, my eyes scanning the exquisite creature in front of me from the hoops in the curve of her ears to the tips of her tennis shoes.
She's also bleeding.
Heavily.
There's a towel wrapped around her forearm. I’m sure it started the day white. Now it's tinged with shades of crimson and pink and red the darkest pit of the cherry as her blood slowly stains the fabric.
A drip slips from the fabric and lands on the linoleum like from a horror movie.
I take two giant steps into the room, grabbing a set of gloves from the box stuck to the wall. I yank them on so fast the latex pulls against my fingertips before I reach for the mess of bloody towels resting in her free hand. She pulls her arm up into her chest protectively, her eyes going wide. Her chest heaves in a gasp, but whether from fright or pain I can’t be sure.
“It’s okay,” I say, putting my hands up in a surrender motion. “I just want to look at your arm.”
The blonde standing next to my patient places a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Easy,” she says in a soft, bracing tone.
My patient lets out a shuddering breath, her shoulders relaxing. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry,” she says as she shakes her head.
It’s not uncommon for patients to be afraid. Especially if they think whatever we're required to do, i.e., stitching up a laceration, is going to hurt. I don’t think her reaction was from fear of pain though.
My eyes flick to the blonde standing next to her, but return to my patient immediately, settling on the brunette perched on the end of the exam table. Her hair is tied in a messy bun on top of her head. She's in a curve-hugging purple tank top, ruined from the blood splatter coating the front. Blue pants, almost scrub like, with pockets and a multi-tool sticking out from a loop on the side.
Underneath all the blood, is grease. There's an adorable little smudge of it going right across her cheekbone. The grease and blood on her shirt have blended into a black inky blob across her torso. The hand holding the towel to the other arm has oil and smudge under every fingernail.
Mechanic then, or some sort of mechanical engineer.
The bare face and the grimy skin are instantly a turn on.
I like a woman who isn't afraid to get her hands dirty.
Her eyes flick to mine, and I hold her gaze, the atmosphere suddenly too thick to suck in a clean breath of air. It's heavy with tension, my red cells turn my blood to sludge from the lack of oxygenation.
Until the blonde pretends to cough, and the rubber band that pulled the moment taught and expectant suddenly snaps as breath rushes back into my lungs.
Gently, I ease the towel from her arm, to get my first look at what we’re working with.
There’s a hunk of gauze already there, probably from the triage nurse, but without the proper pressure, it hasn't done a lick of good to bring the bleeding to a complete stop.
I grab several packages from the drawers and rip them open, then switch out the useless material on her arm for something that will stop the blood.
I feel the muscles clench in her arm where I hold it. Her skin is smooth under my touch. Her eyes watch me, then flick away, as if she’s afraid to meet my gaze.
It makes my breath catch; the way her neck flexes every time she looks towards the wall.
I need to get a grip.
“Put pressure on this for me,” I tell her, and at her nod, switch out my hands for hers.
“Trash?” I confirm, holding the bloody towel between us. At her nod of approval, I drop it all into the biohazard trash, followed by my bloody gloves.
The blonde is leaning in whispering to my patient, and I watch her jaw twitch in a seesawing motion. Is she chewing on the inside of her cheek?
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
I don’t even know her name.
I didn’t bother to open her chart or introduce myself. Just stared at her like a lost puppy dog while holding onto her arm.
I’m really scoring points on the doctor scale today.
I open my mouth to introduce myself, but my voice is rough and gravely. I clear my throat before speaking and cover my awkwardness by pulling the curtain back in place. It still takes me two tries to get the words out.
"Hi. I'm Dr. Ross,” I say, holding in my smile when the blonde’s eyes light up in recognition. We must have an ER fan in the house. I reach out my hand, and the blonde leans around and shakes it.
“I take it we had an accident today?"
The patient's eyes skitter away as she brings her arm up in front of her, indicating the wound she’s currently applying pressure to. "I slipped," she says, looking anywhere but at me. "I was reaching into the engine of a Chevy and lost my balance. Next thing I knew, I was gushing blood all over the alternator."
"Well," I say, hooking my foot under the rolling stool and pulling it towards the table, "I can help with that. Let’s get you patched up."
I slip my white coat from my shoulders and toss it onto the spare chair that the blonde is eschewing in favor of hovering over her friend. I have a feeling that this is going to get messy. I grab another pair of gloves, snapping them at the wrist. I look up at her when I sit on the stool. It changes the angle of our connection. It's the first time I've gotten a good look at her face.
I'm not sure the word beautiful does her justice. She's got scars... everywhere. Not disfiguring, but tiny personal scars. The kind that tell stories. Roadmaps to a life.
She must lead an interesting one.
Her eyes are remarkable. Lashes that go on forever. A blue that borders on lilac. I reach for her face without thinking, wanting to cup her cheek, to feel the smoothness of her skin under my palm. Her eyes snap to me again, and there's a fierceness in them that makes my stomach clench. But there's a weariness there too. Not fear. One look, and I know, this isn't a woman to cower in a corner, needing to be rescued.
But when her eyes flit to the side again and her shoulders hunch forward, I realize this is a person who's been hurt. She's survived, but she's got the marks to prove she fought the good fight.
It's the blonde who breaks the spell.
Again.
"I'm going to go sit in the waiting room. Blood makes me queasy."
My patient turns to her, disbelief clear on her face. It was a pathetic lie. Even I could tell her heart wasn't in it.
"You're a veterinarian," my patient says blandly. "You were going to stitch it yourself until you saw how deep it was."
"But that's animal blood," the blonde says, skirting from around the table. "This is human blood." She gives an unconvincing shudder. I bite my lip to hide in my smile. "Besides, you know who keeps bugging me about you. I'll call him and let him know you're in good hands."
My patient looks between her friend and me, panic rising on her face.
The blonde puts her hands on my patient's shoulders, giving her an encouraging squeeze.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispers quietly. I don’t bother to pretend I’m not listening. “He only wants to help. Besides, he’s kinda cute.”
She glances at me, and it's both considering and threatening. I give her back my professional smile, the one that's polite enough but gives nothing away. I let my hands fall to my lap and pull my shoulders back. I won’t cower under her glare.
"Thirty minutes, give or take," is all I say, nodding my head in acknowledgment of her leave-taking. The blonde winks at her friend, then slides between the curtains without a backwards glance.
"Sorry about that," my patient says, and her voice is deep and smooth, like velvet lined with satin.
"No problem. You Know Who your husband?" I ask, something unnamed, twisting in my gut.
She pulls a face, features squishing up in displeasure.
"No. He's her husband. He's my," she hesitates slightly as if she's not quite sure what to say. "My brother. And my boss."
We stay like that for a moment longer—me looking up at her, her always looking away. But as quick as her eyes jerk from mine, they slowly make their way back.
Like a magnet.
I clear my throat again and move to the computer. My eyes close and I center myself, attempting, and failing, to ignore the pull of the woman sitting three feet behind me.
I still haven’t opened her chart. I shake my head in exasperation, and yank my gloves from my hands, rolling them in a ball. It only takes me a minute to pull her up on the computer.
Cinder Bennet. Age 32.
Cinder.
A fascinating name for an enchanting woman.
I don't bother to contain my chuckle.
I turn and face my Cinder girl with a smile on my face.
"What?" she asks, nervous and hostile all at once.
"Your name," I smile at her.
"What of it?" she replies, wariness coating her every feature.
I tip my head in her direction and use a finger to trace the outline of her form.
"Isn't Cinderella usually covered in ash, not grease?"
She blushes, and the way her skin blooms to a rosy pink makes something stir deep in my chest. An ache, or maybe the easing of an ache I've long learned to ignore.
Fuck, I stepped over the line. She could sue me for this interaction alone.
I run my hand over my head, attempting to pick my professionalism back from where I dropped it at the door.
"Okay, Ms. Bennet. Let's get you stitched up."
I remove the temporary bandages slowly, evaluating the wound. It's not as bad as I thought it was going to be. The flow of blood has slowed to a trickle from the gauze.
I call one of the nurses in, and she helps me start to clean the blood off. The laceration is about six inches long, but deep. Deep enough that I understand why the veterinarian didn't want to stitch it up at home. We're past the fatty tissue and into the muscle. With the amount of blood soaked into that towel, I had assumed we'd be looking at most of her forearm being ripped open. It's a relief to see that isn't the case.
It'll be another scar for her collection, but it won't be the focal piece.
My nurse hands me another wipe, and I pull it over Cinder's wrist, cleaning the mess from her palm and fingers.
A tattoo emerges that was hidden under the layer of dried and crusted blood.
The insignia of the mechanic corps for the Navy. My head snaps up, taking her in with a new set of eyes.
She's a veteran.
No wonder I see the spine of steel through her softened exterior.
Not that she's soft in any use of the term. She's all curves, her breasts, her hips. Even the definition in her biceps. But her curves are sharpened to a razor's edge. Years of hard work built this body. Graceful, but certainly never soft.
I smother her arm in betadine, then shoot her up with lidocaine.
"Any medical history we should be aware of?"
I know the triage desk, and the intake tech, and my nurse, have all asked her that a dozen times by now, but all she does is shake her head in a gentle no.
Most patients love to talk about themselves. What landed them in the hospital and their lives up to this point. Cinder hasn't said a word without being prompted first. She won't make eye contact. My nurse looks at me and confirms my thought with a lift of her eyebrow.
Something is very, very wrong.
"So, Cinder. Mechanic?” I ask, moving my finger up and down to indicate the grease on her person.
She nods yes in silence.
“Are the cars a hobby or a job?"
I feel my nurse's eyes boring into my head, but I ignore her and focus on pulling the needle driver through the wound on Cinder's arm.
I look up at her through my eyelashes, trying to stare without staring. I watch her lips move as she forms the words.
"Passion, really. But yes, it's also my job."
My stare flicks up to look at her eyes, and she's watching me watch her. As soon as I make eye contact, she averts her gaze. There was a light, a fire behind her irises for just a moment. Then the spark went out, and the dull, lifeless expression filled her face again.
"Done," I say, tying off the final stitch. I cover the sutures with butterfly bandages, then gauze and tape over them. The nurse hands me a mesh sleeve-like band that we give burn patients, and I pull it up and over her wrist, covering the bandaging underneath.
"If you could give us a few minutes, we'll be back with your paperwork.”
Cinder nods in quiet acknowledgment but still won't speak.
My nurse leaves the room, pulling the curtain closed behind her.
I should follow her out. My portion of this visit is done.
I don't.
Instead, I sit in front of this woman, this stranger, and will her to look at me. To look at me and tell me why she looks haunted. Wounded, and not in a way that a shot of lidocaine and a couple of stitches can fix.
I place my hands on the exam table, a palm on the outside of either of her knees.
"Cinder," I whisper, and when she finally meets my gaze, there's a challenge in her eyes. Daring me to push her.
I need her to tell me who hurt her.
My hand is halfway to her face again before she finally speaks.
"Thank you," she says. Quiet. Sincere. Final.
"You're welcome.”
I don’t want to move, but I can’t justify simply sitting here and staring at her either.
“I'll be right back."
When I finally leave her room, I throw myself in front of the computer station I've been working from today.
Every instinct I have, honed from years of working on the front lines, is wailing in my head.
Googling her name is worthless. All I get are variations of Cinderella. The warning bells only grow louder.
It’s a fake name. Of course, it is.
Her address comes up as a laundromat on the other side of town. I punch the number listed in her file into my phone, then start walking back to her room before the first ring ever sounds in my ear.
"Chinese Dragon. Will this be for carryout or delivery?"
I don't bother wasting my breath asking for her. Just hit the disconnect button as I yank the curtain to the side.
She's gone.
Fuck.
I knew I shouldn't have left her.
FUCK.
I take off at a run, aiming for the waiting room. Heads turn in my direction. My co-workers shout their concern, wondering if it's an emergency. If I need their help.
